Memoirs of a Toothpick Chewer
by PB-and-Jelly Beans
Summary: Stream-of-consciousness one-shot. What goes on in Squid's head should probably stay in Squid's head. A humorous insight at Squid, his thoughts, and his secret love for television fuzz.


**Author's Note: **My first story to be posted on this account! Woohoo! But not my first story overall. I just haven't posted any others. Anyways, this is the result of my boredom, lots of free time, and slightly too much sugar. It's a humorous little one-shot taking a look at the mind of Squid. I guess one can say it's parodying OOC stories, although I'm not quite sure if it's OOC or not. My most recent reference is the movie because I haven't read the book in about four years. Also, this is AFTER ZERO COMES and BEFORE CAVEMAN ARRIVES.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Holes_. It is owned by Mr. Louis Sachar, a much more talented and creative author. I do, however, own this idiotic little thing that I like to call a story.

**Warning:** Lots of random, nonsensical happenings in this story. Not for the weak-hearted.

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At some point in everyone's miserable life, one will have a dream of dying a hero. Dying for what is good, righteous, and usually beneficial towards the general public. Or perhaps, dying for love—that one girl, or guy in some cases, who you hold close to your heart. Or while saving a family member, friend, or friendly acquaintance. Or in the vicious heat of battle, passing your limits in order to defend your country's freedom and justice. All of those are great ways to die—if dying can be called great—but at the moment, that's not what I picture my death to be. No, I won't die defending loved ones or freedom. My death will be much, _much _more simple. 

I'm going to die in a hole.

What's worse is that I'm going to die in a hole that I dug. While I'm digging the hole.

And my tombstone will read: "In memory of our favorite toothpick-chewing dawg—Squid."

While it's nice to know that I'm everyone's favorite toothpick-chewing dawg, I'm not sure if that's how I want to be remembered. Of course, being everyone's favorite toothpick-chewing dawg means that I must be the best at it, so maybe it's not such a bad thing. Then again, being everyone's favorite toothpick-chewing dawg isn't that great of an accomplishment. Probably, the only reason I'm everyone's favorite toothpick-chewing dawg is because I'm the _only_ toothpick-chewing dawg around Camp Green Lake. Well . . . that makes me unique, right?

I love life.

Wait, does that kid have a toothpick?!

Hah, not anymore. That'll show him. No one has a toothpick without the Squidster doing something about it. Like throwing it into a hole.

Is he picking it up? No, don't put in your—Sick, man. That's just sick.

Well, back to my death rant.

At least I'll be surrounded by my most wonderful friends in the whole wide world. I love you, my D-tent boys!

Hey, did that sound gay? No, really. Did it?

Anyways, thinking back on being surrounded by loving friends, Magnet will probably be happy to move up one place in the water line—he's been trying to do that for months. Zigzag . . . he'll probably think I was an alien in disguise who will be reunited with the family that it was accidentally separated from. Or something like that. I bet Pit and X-ray will miss me! Actually . . . Armpit most likely won't since I poke a lot of fun at his weight and smell. X-ray _might_, but he won't show it with his tough guy act going on. You know, all "I'm cooler than you so suck up and bow down to me 'coz I'm cooler than you, got it, not-as-cool-as-me dawg homey bro?"

So that leaves Zero.

I'm sure he'll miss me. I gave him my dinner that one day. Of course, it _was _that really sick, greenish-purpley-brownish-rainbow, gooey substance that they called meatloaf, but it's the thought that counts, right? _Right_?

Now that I think about it, I'm not sure anymore if I'm going to get that cool "toothpick-chewing dawg" tombstone anymore.

Damn. I really want that tombstone.

Maybe, when I get out of here, I'll make some friends with people who aren't so fortunate as to have toothpicks. I'm sure I'd be _their _favorite toothpick-chewing dawg!

Oh, crap. I just dropped my toothpick.

I think I'm going to cry.

My poor toothpick!

You did _not _just step on my toothpick. X-ray, you may be the leader but you are so dead.

Ouch! Just kidding, man! Can you please let me out of this headlock now? I need to breathe to live.

Yeah, thanks, dude. For nothing!

I'll just have a funeral for my toothpick once I'm done with this stupid hole. Maybe Zigzag will pretend to be the pastor for me. He's the only one crazy enough to hold a funeral for a toothpick.

Aw . . . he's going to be busy. Watching that broken television, no doubt. I think I'm depressed enough to actually join him. Besides, believe it or not, TV fuzz is quite entertaining.

I am _not _crazy! Zigzag is!

But we all love Zigzag, including me. In that friendly . . . brother-ish way.

I am _not _gay! Pendanski is!

Yeah, he is. He hits on Mr. Sir all the time. It's fun to watch. Almost as much as TV fuzz.

Okay, okay, he doesn't hit on Mr. Sir, but it still would be fun to watch.

And then I could brag that I know a gay person.

Woo! Gay pride! Not that I, myself, am gay . . .

Shut up. I am _not _gay.

You know what I'm loving at the moment? Pockets.

They hold my extra toothpicks. Hooray for pockets! And toothpicks! But more for toothpicks!

Screw digging! It should die!

Can digging die? If it could, I would kill it. But then, I would get more years added to my sentence. But I wouldn't have to dig, since digging would be dead! Sweet.

Although . . . the warden would probably come up with something even stupider than digging . . . like chasing dust bunnies. I think chasing dust bunnies wouldn't cause as many blisters though.

Hey, look! My hole's done! Wow, I work quickly when I'm not paying attention. I should pay less attention more often. Or more attention less often. Either or. They both mean the same thing . . . I think.

I'll get back to you on that.

I have now decided I don't like these showers. As much as I love showering and cleansing my beautiful, well-built, and overall sexy body, the showers at Camp Green Lake _suck_. I don't get why Zigzag insists that there are cameras in there when all anyone really needs to do is look over the surrounding wall. The wall barely hides anything below the waist from the outside, the water's cold, and there aren't any stalls! Stupid showers. I still take them though. Don't want to end up like Armpit just yet.

Or Zero. You just can't tell what's in that kid's hair.

I'm sad. The Wreck Room is a wreck. Big surprise there. This camp sucks. But TV fuzz is still fun.

Zigzag isn't. He keeps staring at me like I sprouted two more heads and another arm. Creepy, man. Plain creepy.

I don't suppose it helps any that I'm staring back in the same manner. Oh, woe is me . . . and my hypocrisy. Hey, I rhymed! I see my future as a famous poet! Like Sir what's-his-face. You know who I'm talking about? The guy with the face. No, with the _other _face. Yeah, that one.

I'm the next Sir what's-his-face, and there's nothing you can do about it. Except maybe kill me. Please don't, though. I have a wife and two kids. Okay, I don't, but it doesn't hurt to play the sympathy card.

Like that one time at the zoo.

Alright, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, I went to the zoo. Now, at the zoo, there was a petting zoo since zookeepers obviously thought three hundred different animals weren't enough. And at the petting zoo, there was a magical goat. One day, a boy went with his class to the zoo because his mom would never take him since she's such an excessive drunk. Like all kids, he wanted to visit the petting zoo at the zoo, so he did. When he saw the magical goat, he walked shyly up to it and gently stroked its furry back. Suddenly, it reared onto its hind legs and planted its fore-hooves into the kid's chest.

True story. I swear it.

Anyhow, the kid was now crying on the dirty ground with the goat on top of him, and he's just crying and crying and crying when _finally_, a zoo worker person notices the kid and is all "Ohmygosh, I'm sorry!" and trying to make the kid feel better so the zoo isn't sued by his parents (who don't care but shh! they don't know that). So when the day was over, the kid went home with a _massive _lollipop and thirty dollars. No joke.

Such is the beauty of the sympathy card. Too bad it only worked when I was seven. I guess no one feels that much sympathy for teenaged juvenile delinquents.

Aw . . . darn. I want another massive lollipop. Thirty dollars wouldn't hurt either. Maybe Zigzag knows some aliens who can turn me back into my cute seven year-old self. I _really _want that massive lollipop. It was cherry flavored.

Did you know that it's possible to swallow a toothpick? Because I didn't. But now I do. Yay. It hurt though. A lot.

Not as much as my blisters do. Stupid digging. It should die. We went over this already, didn't we? Ah, me and my repetition. Dang, I didn't rhyme that time. Hey, I did right then! "Rhyme" and "time"!

Tee hee.

"Me" and "repetition" don't rhyme, though. Oh, well.

Do you think if I ask real nice-like, someone will give me a massive lollipop? 'Cause I'm wanting one right now. Preferably cherry flavored.

I like cherries. But they stain real bad.

I know! I'll get Magnet to steal one for me! There he is right now!

Man, he's busy, too. Curse you all and your busy-ness!

I guess I'll just go to the Wreck Room and watch the fuzzy TV with Zig, my man. Television fuzz is fun. And there's nothing else to do.

And I still don't have my massive, cherry flavored lollipop.

I love this camp. It should die.

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**Author's Note: **Yes, I did actually get kicked down in the chest by a goat at the petting zoo at the zoo. Unfortunately, I did not receive a massive cherry flavored lollipop or thirty dollars. But the goat _did_ eat my orange hair clip. And some of my hair while he (she?) was at it. 


End file.
